Authors: Katie Klein
The Guardian (12 page)
“I’m not supposed to.”
“You’re not supposed to sleep in my bed, either, but that didn’t seem to stop you last night.”
He frowns, but doesn’t respond to this. I don’t want him regretting any decisions he’s made relating to me. I shrug my shoulders. “You know . . .
it’s not really about have
to’s
or supposed
to’s
. I’m offering. Either you want to or you don’t.”
A sly smile
creeps to his lips. “You’re not very social first thing in the morning, are you,” he teases.
“It was just a thought,” I reply. “I’m going, anyway.” I stand up, stretching, and walk over to my dresser. “I need to get out of here, and if I go, you go.” I pu
ll open the top drawer and dig around for my bathing suit. “So you can go looking like a normal human being and hang out with me, or disappear like you always do and leave me hanging.”
I slam the drawer shut.
“Genesis, is that you?” my mom calls from the
living room, voice muffled.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’m heading in. I’ll see you at the dinner shift, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply.
I don’t move until I hear the front door close, the screen door slapping against the frame. Outside, Moose growls to life. I face Seth, bat
hing suit clutched in my hand.
“You should probably disappear for a minute.”
He smiles, and then he’s gone. I blink several times, staring into the empty space he just occupied, reeling at how he arrives and vanishes so quickly.
Minutes later I’m skipping
down my front steps, sunglasses perched on my head, beach towel in my hand, bathing suit beneath my shorts and tank top. The gravel crunches beneath my three-dollar flip flops as I head down the driveway.
Halfway down my street, Seth appears.
“Swim trunk
s?” I ask, examining his ensemble as we walk.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Kind of.
So how does that even work? You just think about what you want to wear and it magically appears?”
“Pretty much,” he replies.
“I suppose that comes in handy when you want to
crash parties at the country club.” I pass him a knowing glance.
He smiles. “The job has its perks.”
“Such as?”
I ask, urging him to go on. When he doesn’t: “I mean, you can come and go as you please. I’m assuming that you’re protected, as in you can’t di
e or get hurt or anything. Do you have any special powers?”
“You’re more powerful than I am,” he informs me, a biting edge to his tone.
My nose scrunches in disbelief. “How is that even possible?”
“You’re alive. You can make choices. You’re free.”
“
You look alive to me,” I say.
Seth doesn’t reply, and a thick silence settles between us.
We walk the remaining blocks to The Strip. The road is packed bumper to bumper with cars, SUVs, minivans, convertibles full of sorority sisters, and Jeeps hauling f
rat boys and their body boards.
Seth and I reach the intersection just as the “walk” light begins to flash. I step off the sidewalk and into the street.
The next sound comes from tires as they screech across the pavement. I turn in time to see a silver s
edan rushing toward me. Time folds into itself as I tense, bracing myself for what I am sure are my last moments on earth. A car horn shrieks, and then another, and then another.
I fly backwards, suddenly and unexpectedly pulled out of the street, a hand
seizing my arm. I choke on the smell of burnt rubber as the car whooshes in front of me before skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection, barely missing the left side of an SUV hurrying through the green light. The car behind it smashes the bra
kes and swerves to miss the sedan. Time flows disjointedly as the world spins wildly out of control. I turn toward Seth and bury my face in his chest, choking back a sob. He stands absolutely motionless.
Silent.
Still.
Statuesque.
I don’t even think he’s b
reathing.
In the next moment, he snaps us apart, takes my hand in
his,
and, in the final seconds of the green light, pulls me across eight lanes of halted traffic. He’s fast, almost flying. My feet pound against the pavement trying to keep up. He doesn’t s
low until we’re safely on the other side. My accelerated pulse thumps in my ears, nearly drowning out the sound of the waves as they crash on top of one another, lungs burning with every breath.
With the beach stretched out in front of us, he yanks me arou
nd to face him, fingers gripping my arm.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” he shouts.
“I . . . I didn’t,” I stammer, stunned at the fury in his words, the anger shining in his eyes. “The light was green!”
“I mean, are you
trying
to get yourself killed?” He
lets go, takes a step backward and runs his hands through his hair, pulling it. “I can only do so much, you know. I’m not a license to jump out in the middle of traffic!”
“I wasn’t jumping into traffic!” I counter. “The car . . . the light was red. It said
I could walk!”
He backs away. “You are going to be the end of me. I’ve never. . . .” He trails off, shakes his head in disbelief and turns around, walking away.
“What?” I ask, following him. “You’re not letting me finish! It was an
accident
.”
He spins ar
ound. “Accidents are how people
die
, Genesis. I am not going to stand around and watch you kill yourself because you forgot to think!”
I step back, offering a shaky laugh. “You’re really freaked out about this.”
He glares defiantly, jaw tightening.
“People
die, Seth. I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”
“That’s different,” he says.
“Why? Why is it any different with me?” I challenge.
Silence.
I move in closer, eyes narrowing. “I’ll clue you in on a little something. I’m not like you, Angel Boy. This is the re
al world. I’m a real person. That means one day I’m
gonna
die. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
I turn toward the beach. The salty wind tousles my hair. I brush it out of my eyes and readjust my sunglasses to keep it away from my face, kick o
ff my flip flops, and step onto the warm sand.
I swallow the guilty flames rising in my throat as thoughts of him envelop me from all sides, a flood of memories rushing through my head, like a movie on fast forward.
Kneeling beside me just after the accid
ent.
Taking my hand.
Carrying me across the gym floor.
Watching me.
Dancing.
Smiling.
Lying beside me.
Pulling me toward him to safety.
Holding me.
I sigh, emotions mixing. “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I mean . . . you can’t save me from
everything
.”
But when I turn around he’s gone.
F
OURTEEN
“How’s my favorite waitress?” Stu asks over the hiss of whatever is frying on top of the griddle.
I shrug.
“Well, I’m making some
hash browns and cinnamon toast, and I have a plate in here with your name on it.”
I smile, reaching around the counter for my apron. “I’m ready whenever you are,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears. It’s grown in the last few weeks, easier to manage.
I
climb onto a barstool as
Flavia
brushes past, carrying an empty pitcher.
“You missed lunch today,” she informs me. “An entire room full of cynicism and foul tippers.” Only “tippers” sounds more like “
teepers
.”
I scrunch my nose.
“That bad?”
“Let us pray
that the dinner crowd is more generous, or I won’t be making my next tuition payment.” She crosses herself and begins filling the pitchers: one with water, the other with sweet tea.
“Where’s my mom?” I ask, looking around.
“She’s on a break. It got real sl
ow about an hour ago. And her boyfriend showed up,”
Flavia
explains, shrugging.
“Mike?” I roll my eyes.
“That’s the one. She seems to really like him.” She looks at me as she says this.
I try to bite my tongue, but somehow the word “unfortunately” slips o
ut anyway.
“I figured,” she says, a small but compassionate smile crossing her face.
“Order up!” Stu calls.
Flavia
grabs the two plates as Stu passes them through the kitchen window.
“Hash browns and cinnamon toast?”
A strange figure moves in front of m
e, holding out a plate. I study his face, gaze lingering. He seems vaguely familiar, though I can’t quite place where I’ve seen him before.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the dish. “Do I, um, know you from somewhere?”
A smile flickers, relaxing his striking feat
ures. “I’m not sure.”
He’s around my age . . . maybe a little older . . . blonde hair . . . blue eyes.
Blue eyes
.
“Wait. I think we’ve met.
At the beach.
It was early in the season, but you were surfing. I mean, I didn’t get your name, but we chatted?”
He
stares at me for a moment, searching, as if trying to place me. I’m beginning to regret mentioning it when the realization hits him.
“God.
The beach.
Yeah.
The critic.”
My face flushes in embarrassment. I laugh nervously, sweeping my bangs to the side. “G
uilty.”
“Your cast thing?
Or whatever?”
He
squints
his eyes, visibly remembering.
I hold up my arm, rotating it for effect. “All better.”
“That’s awesome. Man. It’s a small world.” He sets the plate down in front of me. “So, do you come here to eat a lot?
”
I climb onto the barstool. “Actually,” I begin, spearing a bite of hash browns. “It’s worse than that. I work here. Why are you bringing me my food?”
The blue-eyed surfer glances at the kitchen. “I work here, too.
As a cook.
As of today, I mean.”
“No way
!”
My fork clatters to the plate.
“Stu!”
I call. “Ernie actually hired another cook?”
“Yes. Ernie hire cook,” comes a deep voice from behind.
I freeze. After lunch, Ernie leaves. He never comes back until the dinner rush.
“Why you eat my food?” Ernie ask
s. “You pay for it, yes?”
I roll my eyes and let an audible sigh escape. “Yes. I’ll pay for it. Take it out of my check.”
Ernie “
humphs
” and heads toward the kitchen.
“I don’t understand why we don’t get an employee discount,” I mumble, but Ernie’s ears a
re sharp.
“You are employee. Employees no get discount. Senior citizens . . . they get discount.”
“That is so not fair.”
“And you,” he says, turning toward the surfer boy. “You convince me you are great cook.
Why you
no
in kitchen?”
At the grill, Stu turns
around, prepared to say something.
Ernie interrupts before he can even speak. “Not one word from you,” he says, pointing. “Have I fire you this week?”
“Not yet, but the week is young,” he replies, flipping over a couple of burgers and slapping a piece of
cheese on top of each.
The manager ignores him. “And you,” he continues, looking at the new cook, “I not afraid to fire you.
Is warning.
Get to work. Where is
Flavia
?” he asks me.
I point toward the dining floor.
“Working.”
“Good.
Your mother?
Her shift n
ot over.”
“On a break,” I say, cramming another bite of hash browns into my mouth.
“You tell her I fire her,” Ernie replies. “And I fire you, too, if you steal my food.”
“Aren’t we grumpy today,” I mutter. “My shift doesn’t start for another ten minutes,
and I said I’d pay for the food.”
He lets out another grunt. “You not pour tea and take orders in ten minutes, I fire you.”
He disappears into the kitchen, passing Stu on his way to the office.
“You can’t fire everyone!” I point out.
“I the manager!” he
shouts. “And I have plenty of cousins to replace you.”
*
*
*
The dinner crowd comes through: very good tippers. As far as I can tell, everything in the kitchen goes well, too. As soon as the doors are locked and the lights dimmed,
Flavia
and I start washing tables and flipping chairs on top. Ernie is in his office going over that night’s receipts, and, more than likely, deducting a side of hash browns from my pay. Mom is
Windexing
the glass windows before moving on to the floors. Ernie’s n
ephew is washing the last of the dishes, and Stu and the surfer are cleaning the kitchen. Waiting on people night after night is hard enough, cleaning up after them is even worse.
When I finally finish, I pull myself onto a barstool to wait for Mom. My fee
t ache and my wrist hurts. I examine it, thinking that maybe I should stick it back in my brace for the night, just to keep it secure. I pull a wad of cash out of my apron pocket and count my tips.
“Something to drink?”
The surfer guy walks behind the coun
ter and grabs two
styrofoam
cups.
“Water is fine,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“Wouldn’t want Ernie to find out and cut your pay.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d like to say he grows on you . . . but I’ve been working here for like, a year, and it doesn’t happen.
”
He hands me the cup and leans into the metal counter between us.
“So, I haven’t officially gotten your name,” he reminds me.
“Genesis.”
“
Arsen
,” he replies, extending his hand. I smile, taking it in mine. He holds on a few moments longer than natural. A
wave of heat rushes to my cheeks.
“
Arsen
.
That’s a. . . .”
“Weird name, I know,” he finishes.
I shrug. “I was
gonna
go for interesting.”
He takes a sip of his drink, swallows. “My mom was in a trashy drug store novel phase when she had me.
Arsen
is Greek.
It’s short for
Arsenios
.”
“What does it mean?”
“Strong.
Manly.
Something
like
that. I mean, when weren’t the Greeks obsessed with virility, right?”
I laugh at this. “No. That’s a cool name.”
“Nah, it’s lame. I thought about changing it when I turned ei
ghteen. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Okay. So what’s your middle name?”
“
Eugene
.”
I stare at him for a moment, studying his features, trying to determine if he’s serious. And then, as if reading my mind: “I’m not kidding. I wish I was.”
I sit up s
traighter, tucking my hair behind my ear. “No, it’s cool. I mean. It’s . . . interesting.”
“
Eugene
was my grandfather. And no, I’m not dropping my first name to go by
Eugene
.” He laughs, and shakes his head in disbelief. “I bet you’ve never met an
Arsen
Eu
gene before.”
I burst out laughing. “Not one who could surf, anyway.”
His eyes brighten. “Oh, so you’re admitting I can surf.” He grins, revealing two dimples set deeply in his cheeks.
“I told you
you
weren’t bad.”
“The offer still stands, you know
,
if you want to learn how.”
“Nah.
I think I’ll pass,” I say, smiling.
“Right.
There’s that sort-of boyfriend.”
My face warms. I can’t meet his eyes.
“Not exactly.”
“Now
there’s
some good news.” He sets his cup on the counter. “So . . . if there’s no sort-
of boyfriend I’m technically free to ask you if you want to go out sometime.”
“I suppose you’re free to do that.” The pink
undertones slide
up my neck and creep further into my cheeks.
“And you would say. . . .” He presses, urging me to go on.
I’m certai
n that Seth is hovering nearby.
Lurking.
Listening.
Always hiding.
I remember Carter, still somehow in love with me. But one look into
Arsen’s
intense, glittering
eyes,
and it’s dangerously easy to say: “What do you have in mind?”
